Invincible
by whitetiger91
Summary: Graham Montague's grandfather is incredible. He's fought goblins and trolls, played Quidditch, and even tamed a banshee. The man is invincible—Graham just wishes everyone else believed he was, too.


**_A/N: This story was written for the International Wizarding School Championships—an amazing forum I highly encourage you all to join. Looking for a great Harry Potter writing competition? Look no further! Amazing prompts, no bullying, and incredible writers and friends!_**

**_School: Mahoutokoro School of Magic_**

**_Theme: __Fifty Shades of the Dark Arts: Avada Kedavra_**

**_Prompts: __6\. [Character] Graham Montague (main prompt), 3. [Object] Invisibility Cloak (restriction: cannot be used by Harry Potter) (additional prompt), 4. [Event] Funeral (additional prompt)._**

**_Year: Year 7 (Part-timer standing in)_**

**_Round: Round 6_**

**_Word count: 3285 words (Google docs; using +10% leeway)_**

**_Beta: Thank you to Sophie (3cheersforidiots) again for her continued beta help!_**

_**Additional A/N:** _**_This story was inspired by a conversation a good friend and I had last week. Although I didn't know I'd be writing until yesterday, I'm glad we had that chat as it reminded me how much I miss my own grandparents—and the little white lies most grandparents tell to impress their grandchildren. In case I suck at writing, I just want to be clear that all Balthasar Montague's stories are bovine excrement. _**

**_I'm also not too sure if it was clear either (I'm afraid I had to cut down words again, oops), but whilst Graham thought the cloak helped his grandfather hide from his monster grandmother, he was actually recalling a more figurative use (aka hiding from his grandmother during her moods—you know, how some husbands hide in their man caves—and as a tool to impress her like James Potter might've used with Lily.) Please keep in mind, too, that his grandparents were born in an era when men literally spoke of their wives as property, and no intention to be sexist as a writer is intended._**

**_Every second scene is a flashback occuring between the time of the funeral and a month earlier (I tried avoiding the use of italics)._**

**_Finally, the names of the Montagues (excluding Graham, who we only know in canon as a Slytherin Chaser with hairy arms who was pushed into a Vanishing Cabinet by the Weasley twins) are all made up. Sorry for being cheesy by going with character names from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet; with a name like Montague I couldn't help myself hehe._**

**_I sincerely hope you like this tale, and thank you in advance for taking the time to read! Xx_**

* * *

**Invincible**

Graham huffed and he tugged at his shirt collar. The stiff material was too itchy against his neck, and the tie his mother had forced on him was far too tight. It would've been a little more bearable if he didn't have to also wear his thick black cloak, which only seemed to attract the sun's hot rays.

With another huff, the seven-year-old stopped fidgeting and looked around. Many of the witches and wizards occupying the neat rows of white chairs were also wearing dark cloaks and robes. The wizards were all wearing stern expressions whilst their wives dabbed at their tear-filled eyes with silk handkerchiefs. He didn't recognise any of them, and turned his attention towards his grandmother.

Unlike the others, she allowed her tears to freely trickle down her cheeks. Her dark eyes were fixated unblinkingly on the front of the small garden area, and her hair was held in its usual, tight, steel-grey chignon. She didn't look like a banshee at all, but he would've given anything to hear his grandfather call her one at that moment.

* * *

_**One month earlier...**_

"We're not staying for lunch, Abraham."

"Shhh… My mother knows we're only here to drop Graham off."

"You said that last time. Graham's old enough to start Floo'ing here…"

Graham rolled his eyes at his parents' bickering. Every weekend was the same: they would bustle around the house, yelling at him to pack his overnight bag, only to end up being the last out the door themselves. He didn't know why they didn't like visiting his grandparents; although his grandmother was very bossy, his grandfather was incredible.

Pushing between their legs, he banged the ornate brass knocker against the front door. As soon as the house elf opened the door, he slipped past and tore through the house. He could hear his grandmother rebuking his mother for his behaviour, but he only stopped when he reached the office.

"I'm here!" he said, flinging open the door.

His grandfather didn't look up from his work. "I heard."

Graham knew better than to ask what he was doing and sat on the rug in front of his desk. His brown eyes wandered around the grand room, taking in the ceiling-to-floor bookcase and the various antiques lining the fireplace mantle. His eyes soon clapped upon a large locked chest in the corner that bore the Montague family crest. Curious, he crawled towards it.

"Don't even think about it."

Jumping, he turned to face his grandfather, who hadn't taken his eyes off his work.

"You're being boring. Tell me a story." He pouted.

His grandfather finally looked up, his own brown eyes twinkling. "Boring, am I?"

"Grandmama said all you do is work and sleep."

"Did she now? Well, of course she'd say that. Compared to her lot, I'm quite boring."

"Her lot?" Graham tilted his head.

A wave of fear crept up his stomach, wondering if his grandfather was about to reveal that his grandmother was one of those Mudbloods his parents hated. It would explain why his mother never liked visiting her.

"I'm not sure if I should tell you. You might get frightened—or she might rip my head off."

"Rip your head off?"

His grandfather leant closer to him. "Well, your grandmother is a banshee, isn't she? I'm the first wizard in the world to have married one."

"A banshee?" He shivered, picturing the vicious hags from his storybooks. "But she doesn't have red eyes or—or black hair…"

His grandfather shook his head. "Banshees can have any coloured eyes. Why do you think she wears her hair up all the time? Have you never noticed her long claws?"

He gulped, the hair on his arms standing on end. His grandmother did have rather long, sharp nails, and now that he thought about it, her skin _was_ quite wrinkly, like a banshee's.

"Does her skin turn green?" he asked. "She wo-won't eat me, w-will she?"

His grandfather's thin lips twisted into a smile. "I've seen her with a green face. But no, weren't you listening, boy? I managed to tame her."

His fear was soon replaced by the familiar awe he felt for his grandfather. He'd told him many stories of his bravery, but taming a banshee had to be one of the better ones.

"How?"

His grandfather grunted as he stood and stretched. He hobbled over to the chest, took out his wand, and with a series of impressive muttering, unlocked it. He fiddled around in the box before pulling out a silvery cloak. Then, flinging it over himself, he disappeared.

"What...?"

No sooner had Graham blinked than his grandfather reappeared, the cloak in his hands.

"Oh! You used your Invisibility Cloak to capture her?" he said. He'd forgotten his grandfather always had something to help him whenever he defeated beasts or rescued people. "Tell me the story about how the Minister gave it to you as a reward for inventing the Pepper Up Potion!"

"The cloak helped; I had to be sneaky to avoid her deadly screeching. Took a while to put a ring on her finger to tame her and make her mine," his grandfather said, chuckling. "But, I have work to get on with, so I'll tell that other tale later—"

"Oh, no, you won't; it's time for lunch. Come on, you two."

Graham turned to see his grandmother standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips and eyes flashing. The tingle of fear was back, but as he glanced at his grandfather, he knew he'd be okay.

When they didn't move fast enough, she screeched, "Now!"

His grandfather winked. "Better do what the banshee says."

* * *

Graham's eyes trailed down to his grandmother's left hand; he noticed she was twisting the gold band on her finger. He wanted to tell her not to worry, that his grandfather would be there soon. At that moment, however, a man wearing funny purple robes walked to the podium in front of them and cleared his throat.

"We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of a wonderful man…"

Graham looked at the long, highly polished coffin sitting behind the wizard. On top of it, surrounded by white lilies, was a sepia-toned photograph of a handsome young man. He was flying around on a broomstick, occasionally stopping to wave at the crowd.

He wished the wizard would hurry up and finish speaking. His grandfather would want him to practice Quidditch—not waste time like this.

* * *

_**…**_

"If I catch you doing that again, I'll make you eat soap!"

Graham huffed as the whimpering house elf scuttled away. He'd been trying to give it his mashed potatoes underneath the table.

"But I _hate_ vegetables," he said, glaring at his plate.

He could feel his grandmother's eyes boring into him, and when he looked up, he saw her nostrils flaring. She opened her mouth, and he winced as he remembered his grandfather's banshee story from the day before. Was she about to screech until he either ate his food or his ears bled?

Thankfully, his grandfather held up a hand. "Allow me," he said, turning mischievous eyes towards him. "Graham…"

"Please, don't make me eat them."

"Now, boy, you remember that I was on the Slytherin Quidditch team, don't you?"

Graham nodded, sure that a good story was coming.

"I was the youngest Chaser, let alone player, in over a century. As soon as I walked through the school doors they knew I'd be a champion—had to have me, they did. And I proved them right, didn't I? Scored two hundred goals in my first game."

"Wow!"

His grandmother snorted into her tea, but Graham ignored her. He thought he'd heard his grandfather say thirty goals when he'd told the story before, but two hundred was even better. He couldn't wait to get to Hogwarts and try out for the team himself.

"But do you know how I outwitted all those cheating Gryffindors?"

Graham leant forward in his chair, enraptured. His grandfather had never revealed _how _he'd done it.

"Did you use your Invisibility Cloak?"

"My what? Oh, no, didn't need it; I was too fast already. And I was fast because I ate all my vegetables when I was a young lad." His grandfather winked.

Graham slumped back in his chair. He couldn't see how vegetables could make him faster—not something that tasted that revolting. But as he watched his grandfather take large bites of potato, he picked up his own fork and began to shovel the disgusting food into his mouth.

* * *

Graham's stomach grumbled. He clutched it, glaring at purple-robed wizard who was still droning on.

"When Balthasar was in his fifth year, he tried out for his house Quidditch team…"

The wizard's words seemed to make the crowd around him cry even more. Next to him, his mother blew her nose whilst his father, whose eyes were also red, rubbed her back.

He wanted nothing more than to stride up to the front, push aside the wizard, and shout at them all. They were being ridiculous. Not only was the wizard getting all the facts wrong, but he was also trying to convince the gathered crowd that his grandfather was dead.

That was impossible; his grandfather was invincible.

* * *

_**...**_

"Don't you go running off—"

Graham hastily kissed his mother's cheek, waved at his father and grandmother, and sprinted up the hall towards his grandfather's office. All week, he'd been looking forward to hearing more epic tales. As he came skidding to a halt at the office door, however, he saw that his grandfather wasn't inside.

Turning around, he sprinted off towards his grandparents' bedroom. "Poppa?"

Sure enough, as he barged into the room, he saw his grandfather lying in the bed. A glass of water was on his bedside table, as well as a number of green potions. He wrinkled his nose as he walked over to the bed, betting all the Sickles in his Niffler-shaped money box they tasted horrible.

"I thought I heard a troll running around," his grandfather croaked.

Graham's head whipped back to the door, making his grandfather chuckle.

"What's funny?" he asked, narrowing his eyes as he climbed onto the bed.

His grandfather's laugh turned into a fit of coughs. "Nothing, nothing," he said, trying to catch his breath.

Graham wasn't convinced, but being in the man's presence was enough to ease his worry. If there was a troll on the loose, his grandfather would be able to wrestle it without problem.

"Can I hear about the time you discovered a giant living in the Forbidden Forest?" he asked.

His grandfather sighed. "Alright. Let me think... I was in my second year—"

He didn't get too far in telling the story, however, as more coughs wracked his body. Graham passed him the water, a different worry invading his thoughts.

"You're not… you're not dying, are you?" he asked.

Between coughs, the man took a large gulp of water, causing the liquid to dribble down his chin. It made Graham's heart clench, but soon, his grandfather was waving him off.

"Don't be daft, boy," he said, fixing watery eyes on him. He considered him for a moment, as though looking for the right words. "I can never die, you know."

"Because your cloak hides you from bad people?"

His grandfather shook his head. He coughed a few more times, sweat now forming on his brow, but with some help, he propped himself up on the pillows. Graham wondered if he should run back to the office and fetch the Invisibility Cloak from the chest, but the man launched into another tale.

"It's not just the cloak that keeps me alive," he said. "Did I ever tell you the time I invented the Philosopher's Stone?"

"The Phil—what?"

"Philosopher's Stone. A stone that allows the owner to live forever."

"Wow!"

"I was quite brilliant at Alchemy and Potions, if I may say so. Why, I created it just after graduating Hogwarts. Mind you, I had to fight off a few greedy goblins who wanted it."

"Did you defeat them?" Graham asked, his eyes wide.

"I'm still here, aren't I? Outnumbered, I was, twe—eighty to one, all of them surrounding me in the old hut I used as a secret hideout. They scratched me up pretty bad." His grandfather held up his wrist where a thin, white scar was outlined against his tan skin. Graham's mother had always told him it was from his grandfather cutting himself when opening a can of fish. "But I managed to escape through a cupboard that opened up in another room in Knockturn Alley. They're still after me, you know."

Graham glanced out the window, half expecting a slimy goblin to be peering through the glass. With a shiver down his back, he turned back to his grandfather.

"Can I see it?"

"See what?"

"The stone."

"Oh, er, no, it's in my chest and… and it's very dangerous, you know."

"Oh." Graham's shoulders sagged. "What does it look like?"

"It's, er, it's the same colour as the Montague crest—green, blue, and gold—and it's as big as, er, a Quaffle."

Graham tried to picture the amazing stone, thinking of the Quaffle he had at home. "Wow," he repeated.

His grandfather grabbed his hand, though, forcing Graham's attention back to him. His eyes no longer held the twinkle they usually did.

"The point is, Graham, that you don't need to worry about me dying, alright? I'm a tough man; I'll be alright," he said.

Graham squeezed his hand, nodding slowly. "Alright…"

Part of him still worried about his grandfather, who started coughing again, but he knew his grandfather would never lie.

* * *

"I ask our gathered mourners to now stand as we sing Balthasar's favourite song…"

Graham wiped furiously at his eyes as everyone stood up. He didn't know why he, too, was crying, but he refused to sing the slow ballad. Through blurry eyes, he tried peering around the other witches and wizards, looking for a sign of his grandfather.

The man was probably laughing at everyone being so silly, hidden beneath his Invisibility Cloak. In fact, any moment now, Graham was sure he would whip his cloak off and shout, "Boo!"

His heart gave a squeeze as he swung his head back and forth, searching the grass in the hopes of catching sight of a shoe, or a twig snapping, or—or _anything_.

* * *

_**…**_

When Graham went down to breakfast the next morning, he gave a guilty start as he saw his grandfather sitting at the table. The sweat was gone, and although he gave a small cough between spoonfuls of porridge, he looked quite healthy, dressed in his regular robes.

"Good morning," he said, sitting down.

His grandmother sat down as well, fixing her eyes on his grandfather. "You'd better get going or you'll be late…"

The man waved her off and took his time getting up. Graham watched his grandmother's eyes narrow, hoping to see them flash red. Although they remained brown, his grandfather did move quicker towards the fireplace.

"Where's he going?" Graham asked, disappointed he wasn't invited along.

"Just an appointment."

"Who with? Oh! Is he going to make a deal with the mermaids to make them give us some jewels?"

"Pardon?"

"The appointment. Grandfather can speak fluent Mermish, you know; didn't he tell you?"

His grandmother rolled her eyes. "Nonsense; your grandfather is filling you with nonsense," she muttered.

Graham shrugged and picked up his spoon, his mind wandering to scenes of his grandfather battling a man with a fish tail and holding a golden trident. He was glad he was alright, and made a promise to himself to never doubt him again.

* * *

"Come on, son..."

His father dragged him towards the hole where the coffin was being lowered into the ground. His stinging eyes continued to roam around the grounds as the other guests dispersed, however, his heart beating faster. He was desperately hoping to catch a glimpse of his grandfather somewhere.

Someone pressed a handful of dirt into his hand and he turned back. His mother gave him a gentle tap on the back, pointing to the hole where his grandmother and father had already placed some dirt.

Graham wiped his eyes with his elbow and let the soil drift through his hands onto the coffin. He was positive that it was empty, though. It had to be.

* * *

**_…_**

"Hurry up! Come on, let's go…"

Graham danced around the front door, waiting for his parents. As usual, they seemed to have taken their time getting ready; his father was still in his pyjamas.

"Graham... it's the weekend. Why don't you go have a lie-in?" his mother said, stifling a yawn.

He rolled his eyes. "Grandmother doesn't like it when we're late. Come on!"

His father appeared around the corner as his mother said, "We're not going to your grandparents' today."

He stopped bouncing around. "Why not?"

"Because…"

His parents shared a look. His mother shook her head, whilst his father shrugged and said, "He has to know."

"Know what?"

His mother sighed and bent down so that their eyes were level. Graham could see that hers were slightly red.

"Your grandmother doesn't want visitors at the moment. I'm afraid… I'm afraid…"

"Your grandfather passed away last night," his father said, placing a hand on his mother's shoulder as she burst into tears. "I'm sorry."

Graham's head was filled with a humming sound as he looked from one to the other. He was about to tell them they were silly, but then he remembered they probably didn't know about his grandfather's special cloak or stone.

"Don't worry, he's not dead! Poppa can't die! He's got things to protect him."

His mother gave a loud sob, and his father shot him a glare. "Don't be stupid; your grandfather is dead."

Graham shook his head. "No, he's not; he told me he can't die."

His mother continued to sob, but his father's eyes softened. "My father told a lot of stories," he said quietly.

He led his mother off to the bedroom, leaving Graham standing by himself in the hallway. The humming sound grew— the word 'dead' filling his mind—but he tried shaking it off. It was impossible; his grandfather couldn't die! He was invincible. He was probably just off on another adventure.

* * *

"Let's go." His father beckoned him to follow as he led his mother away, but he couldn't move.

He turned to his grandmother instead, who was watching the hole being filled in. "He's just off wrestling werewolves, isn't he?"

His grandmother didn't answer, causing his heart to beat even more painfully.

"Isn't he? Poppa?" He spun in a circle, searching the grounds. "_POPPA?_ You can take off your cloak now!"

The tears were falling from his eyes now in great plops, a fear he'd never known before enveloping him. His grandfather didn't appear mid-air, though, or come running towards them with torn robes, ready to launch into another magnificent story about a narrow escape.

"Poppa?"

Only silence met his ears.

"Pop—"

He started when someone squeezed his hand, and he turned, expecting to see his grandfather standing there. It was his grandmother, however, her watery eyes now on the marble headstone that had appeared above the grave.

"He's just on another adventure," she whispered.

His heart lightened, and the urge to ask more questions grew. Where was he? When would he return? Did he still have his Invisibility Cloak?

He remained quiet, though, his tears still falling as he stared at the grave. Whatever adventure it was, he knew his grandfather would be alright. He'd just have to wait a little longer than usual before his grandfather told him about it.


End file.
